“Can we go and sit down?” I asked, leaning into Cade on a beautiful May afternoon.
“Sure, are your feet hurting?” he asked as we found a bench to sit on in the outdoor venue.
I am wearing absurdly high heels as part of my very intentional “femme fatale” look, and I’m high out of my mind.
“Nope,”- I replied- “I’m super buzzed.”
He laughed a little and led me to a seat.
“Do you want to go to the van and lie down?” He asked while I did my best to control my body’s reaction to the ill-advised amount of THC I accidentally took before his high school friend’s wedding.
You see, dear reader, I was very enthusiastic about this party. Cade and I had not gone out on a date by ourselves in quite a while, and I had booked us a hotel in downtown Des Moines, where we were visiting family for the summer. I paid to get my hair, nails, and makeup done. I was wearing a tux with a sexy corset, and I was committed to feeling myself.
As a person who doesn’t drink alcohol and who is an introvert at heart, I sometimes get anxious about engaging in new social situations. I knew that I would be meeting a lot of people who would be drinking that day, so I had the brilliant idea of stopping at a dispensary and grabbing a THC drink before the event to relax a little. Until July 1st of this year, it was all legal in Iowa to sell and buy herbal refreshments, so I barely made the cutoff.
I don’t drink alcohol because it has never been my friend. Still, I am not against recreationally and spiritually partaking in some plant medicine, so I gingerly drank my elixir. At the same time, Cade grabbed the vehicle I was not willing to walk to in my stupid heels.
“Do you want to try a gummy?” The dispensary lady asked me while I waited.
“Sure,” I replied, assuming that since I was already having 3mgs via my drink, this lady was offering me CBD; the relaxing, non-high inducing type of gummy.
“How much is in it?” I asked halfway through my chew.
“Just 8 milligrams of Delta-9.”
Screech, full stop.
“I’m sorry, what?” I asked after swallowing.
And this is how, right after the wedding ceremony and during cocktail hour, I find myself sitting on a bench trying to sit up straight and act like nothing is happening, even though everything is happening.
“Your jaw is shuttering.” Cade pointed out.
“Because I’m trying to control and channel my energy. Do I sound high?” I asked, scared.
For the past thirty minutes of conversations with his high school friends, I have been afraid of my ability to form coherent sentences, to the point of not engaging in conversation because my voice was starting to sound like a cartoon to my ears. My body felt both heavy and springy as my controlling nature kicked in, and I was effectively an enneagram type eight on relaxing drugs, and my mind did not know what to do with that information.
I am not a person who gets high. Honestly, I’m not too fond of the feeling of not being totally in control of my body; I have avoided that feeling like the plague ever since I stopped drinking back in 2017. Weed is not part of my recreational or spiritual practice. I don’t enjoy the heaviness in my body that brings about a feeling of danger.
We can't be safe if I can’t jump to action. My mind tells me.
“Do you want to go to the van and lie down?” Cade asked again, bringing me out of the brief about of paranoia that was taking over me.
“No,” I replied, “Unless you think I should. I think I can handle myself, but I don’t want to embarrass you in front of your friends.”
“You and I take to weed very differently. I couldn’t stand it if I’d taken as much as you did. But you sound fine. I didn’t realize there was anything going on until you leaned into me while we were talking.”
“Ok, but if I start acting weird and getting embarrassing, you can tell me to go to the van.” I ultimately said.
“Do you need anything right now?” He asked, and I relaxed.
If this had happened three years ago, I probably would have reacted poorly to his kindness. Flashbacks of my youth came rushing back.
I was thirteen years old and was developing my voracious love for reading when my dad invited some work friends over. They all had to walk past me on the patio to reach their final destination, and when he realized this, my dad angrily made his way to me and violently whispered for me to go to my room because if I couldn’t be social, I shouldn’t be seen.
My young body and mind internalized what I have been hearing since I was a pup… Who I was as an individual did not matter; I only counted as an extension of the most important man in my life, and I was not allowed to make him look bad in any way, shape, or form, intentionally or otherwise. To this day, as a 35-year-old woman, my father does not introduce me to his circles as I am now heavily tatted. In the environment that built my inner dialogue and self-esteem, I’m still persona non-grata.
But in this life, I have chosen and built for myself, high like a kite; I am lucky enough to be witnessed, loved, and cared for at my most imperfect.
Cade didn’t make fun of me, he didn’t judge me for my stupid mistake, he wasn’t ashamed of me, and he was not trying to hide me. Just as I was concerned with not making a fool out of myself for his sake, he worried about my well-being; I was safe and could breathe.
I did eventually make it to the van to rest. I also decided not to waste an excellent chance to pump; a nursing mother knows no breaks. I have no scientific way to prove this, but the second I got a letdown, my buzz disappeared, and I was a functional human again. I could return to the reception in time for a lovely dinner.
And so, a mistake that would have tormented me and caused me to spiral into shame for years is now the memory of the time I learned to love myself through my humanity.
This results from years of shadow work with the Enneagram, Human Design, Therapeutic modalities, and many mistakes. It has not been easy, but it has been worth it.
I learned how to love myself when I let good people love me well.
Actual footage of my pumping in the van and getting ready to return to the party.